their gaze alights before mine looks away and we both watch our corner views til a worry, a stare caught falling on our own concerns no loud mouth would know

2016/01/08 § Leave a comment

or?

 

their gaze alights

 

Locked-in Syndrome of Age & Experience

2016/01/06 § 1 Comment

Effort of my attempt effects no outcome —
tryness of triedness makes nothing —
tired of my tears I rip the connoted stretch marks of my mind.

I had to study Les Murray at matriculation for English HSC (the grading names have all been change to protect the past), via  The Vernacular Republic, only a couple of years after it was published. I didn’t have to fail it, but I am glad I did (probably due to my handwriting speed in essaywriting). #themoth


 

LES MURRAY: I’m a subhuman redneck, of course I am.

MARK COLVIN: Is that because of the bullying?

LES MURRAY: There I suppose probably, yeah. You know that deep down the university, university English departments are never going to take me seriously because they are in the business of training kids to be members of the middle class.

I was sent to university to become part of the middle class, I did not do it, I did something else, I became a poet and I’ve never been forgiven for it.

MARK COLVIN: But that sounds extraordinarily resentful given than that people like the great writer Joseph Brodsky says, “He is quite simply the one by whom the language lives,” and then somebody, John Timpany, in the Philadelphia Inquirer says, “Would somebody please, please give this guy the Nobel prize?”

LES MURRAY: Yeah I don’t believe any of it. I know where people, people know where they fit in society and you can’t move out of it.

You can play games with it, which is what I do but, you can’t overcome it or dismiss it. You are assigned that part of society and the fires of hell will not move you.

On death and poetry: Les Murray speaks to Mark Colvin from his Bunyah home

 

Consciousness forming conscience categories real life out of the voidly self

2016/01/06 § Leave a comment

Moving along, that bubbly blonde with some dead man’s hat on the hair above her head, strays moving in the air like the laugh of the cut man’s son in, with — I know her style but I am not sure of her type — within the kind of fun loving slink and jig in the corner of her wants. Yes, she needs no introduction, you know. There are twenty more upstairs in the store looking for someone special. You don’t know who she is.

Watching & writing in the void at MONA 8th Oct 2015

Where Am I?

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